


Neon Stars

by 21 (thedisasternerd)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, First Contact, Holy shit how did this happen, In a way, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, PHEW - Freeform, Seriously heed the violence tag guys, Slow Burn, Telepathy, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/pseuds/21
Summary: When he was nine, James T. Kirk had a dream.Jim shakes himself, pinches his arm, rubs his eyes. When he blinks, the alien is still there, staring at him. He twitches, suddenly uneasy. He feels like he's been plucked out of a movie or a cartoon and unceremoniously dropped back to real life. Except the alien's still there. The wind whips, and he shivers. The being in front of him tracks the movement, eyebrows crinkling just slightly before smoothing out again into the impassive mask. The stars loom over him, pressing down. He shivers, unexpectedly conscious of not who but what he is. Minuscule under the heavens, not even a blip on the radar. Yet here he is, gazing into the face of the unknown. Literally.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, charles.  
This was planned out in my head in a way that is similar to a movie. So if you think about this that way it should be a more succinct read.  
Updates will most likely be random due to my exam prep (GCSEs are a nightmare and they're coming soon...) but I will do my best to be regular.  
I hope you enjoy.

The night is almost clear but fresh, and the stars are nowhere to be seen. The pink light of farewell that graced the horizon as the sun set has been overtaken, the dark settling like a careworn blanket. Something is slithering through the cracks in the darkness, silky and obscured, drawing the night around itself like a cloak.

The witching hour has begun.

Usually, the owner of the house is up for a long time, pottering around in the kitchen, trying to sniff out any spare cans of beer - or any alcohol, for that matter - although he still hasn't found the stash of brandy that his wife had before she signed up for the Air Force. But wherever Frank goes, the lights turn on. It's a constant, in an impermanent world, though a strange one: he always switches the lights on and off, regardless of his state of inebriation. They shine out like lighthouses, pale yellow squares marked on the tall grass outside. Around them, the shadows seem even more stark, despite the fat white moon that rides atop the shredded clouds. Crickets rasp in the surrounding corn, insects totter in the harsh glow, a kaleidoscope of shadows and translucent wings. It's a monochrome, ever shifting portrait of something that the human eye has never figured out how to see.

The lights go out, and so does Jim Kirk.

The thick, knotted rope trailing down from the highest window in the house sways gently in the breeze. It loops on the dusty earth, the only evidence at the crime scene, along with a lone, small footprint.

The wheat fields rustle quietly, a faint susurrus. The wind whispers warnings into his ears as he marches on. The stars have returned, glimmering coldly, though the boy has eyes only for one. It leaves a blazing trail of light as it wheels across the heavens, gone in a flash of white and blue streams. The path of trampled wheat is straight as an arrow, leading towards the road. There are no cars, the night wild and harsh, almost as if it would suffocate any cars that would try to drive down that long, empty road.

But a small body lies spread-eagled in the middle of the smudged and oddly sooty tarmac. It's clad in a matte black material, puffy like Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong in that old black-and-white video, with a sleek helmet almost like theirs. The surface is silvery, reflective, giving no indication as to what's inside. The entire suit is covered in dull purple scorch marks, the material warped and twisted, like a piece of paper shrivelling up in a fire.

It lies there, looking for all the world like a rag doll. It doesn't move, not even when Jim, his blond hair sticking out in gravity-defying positions, skids to a stop on front of it. He knocks on the sphere, and yells questions at it, but there's no answer. He frowns, bottom lip sticking out in a disappointed pout at its unresponsiveness.

He huffs, and mumbles, "What's the use of an alien that won't even do anything?"

The boy is just about to give up and walk away when, with a faint hiss, the suit sits up, wobbling slightly from side to side. The spherical head twists wildly, like someone on the inside was frantically looking about. Jim Kirk stands still, his mouth hanging open, eyes huge and shining with excitement at his discovery. The wind picks up a strand of his hair and makes the lock, greasy with dirt and engine oil, fall into one wide eye. He jerks it out with an impatient shake of his head and takes an excited step forward.

The suit freezes, then slowly turns. Jim stares. It doesn't move any more, staying unnaturally still.

Crickets chirp in the surrounding corn, rustling as the wind runs soft fingers through it. Jim feels like if he strained his ears, he could make out the whispers on the wind. He can't tell how long the moment lasts, time freezing with the alien. Jim can still almost hear the murmured secrets between the wind and the cornfields. Above, the stars are frigid pinpricks. On the beaten down, dusty road, a boy wearing ratty trainers, torn, dirty jeans and an off-white t-shirt that reads NASA stands, fearless among the creatures of the night. He raises his arms slowly. Like they were told to do in class with a wild animal. The suit just tilts its head to the side, like a curious dog. Light glints off of it, the full moon distorted on the reflection.

Jim says, gently, confidently, "I'm not gonna hurt you." He congratulates himself on having watched enough sci-fi movies to know exactly what to do in this scenario.

However, contrary to his half-formed hope that the alien (even the thought of such a thing sends a thrilling mix of adrenaline and fear bubbling up in his chest) will attack him, it simply continues observing him quizzically. Maybe it's recording his every move. He'll be the first human the aliens will see back on their home planet. Maybe it's a _probe_. But it's not hard to imagine question marks floating around its head, like in his favourite cartoons. He can't help a smile at the thought, but quickly sobers in disappointment as he realises that there won't be any epic fight with laser guns and cool moves. But then, Jim doesn't have a laser gun. Whatever, he could totally take the alien on bare-handed. He's stronger than he looks. One time, he punched Johnny in the face for being mean to one of the younger kids. He broke his thumb, and got suspended, but it was worth it.

While Jim works himself up, the alien has inched forward, just a bit. Jim attempts his best smooth Hollywood voice.

"It's okay," he says soothingly, then repeats, a little louder, "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Nothing happens. The silence stretches on. Even the wind has died down, as if stopping to listen. The stars glimmer, dull reflections in the helmet. Slowly, tentatively, the alien raises its own arms, in what seems to be an awkward attempt at imitating Jim.

It's odd, a bit like a scene from a cartoon. Jim chuckles, teeth startlingly white in the dark. The alien startles, taking a slight step backward, the head making tiny side-to-side motions.

Jim can't help it. He bursts out laughing. It jumps again, stepping forward, then back. He doubles over, clutching his stomach, staring at the dusty ground between his grey, torn trainers. It's just so _weird_.

When he finally straightens up, hands still clutching weakly at his knees for support, a pair of dark eyes stare back at him. It makes him startle and skitter back slightly, but no sound leaves the alien's thin, pale lips. There should be some sort of reflection in its eyes, Jim thinks vaguely.

_Dark matter,_ he remembers suddenly. There, but not reflecting any light, not bending it, not interacting with it at all. Sam had told him that, the night before he disappeared. The night-

Jim's fists clench involuntarily.

The alien shifts, and pulls him out of his rapidly spiralling, bitter thoughts. The moon casts soft shadows on the foreign face in front of him. The light makes the pale skin glow white, dark shadows cast by angular, outlandish features. The tips of pointed ears are framed by long, sleek black hair that glints silver like the helmet that is now nowhere to be seen. Dark locks curl like inked calligraphy down a delicate neck, bangs falling into that elfin visage. Upswept brows make the blank, pale face look alarmed, even though those dark matter eyes give away nothing.

Jim squints at the eyes, something unsettling about them. They are almond-shaped, almost... _human_. Full of something he can't quite pinpoint. His thoughts whiz around his head, untethered.

Then, reality hits. Hard.

Jim shakes himself, pinches his arm, rubs his eyes. When he blinks, the alien is still there, staring at him.

He twitches, suddenly uneasy. He feels like he's been plucked out of a movie or a cartoon and unceremoniously dropped back to real life. Except the alien's still there. The wind whips, and he shivers. The being in front of him tracks the movement, eyebrows crinkling just slightly before smoothing out again into the impassive mask.

The stars loom over him, pressing down. He shivers, unexpectedly conscious of not _who_ but _what_ he is. Minuscule under the heavens, not even a blip on the great celectial radar.

Yet here he is, gazing into the face of the unknown. _Literally_.

A cold wave of thrilling terror washes over him, and he examines the alien with renewed vigour.

The alien looks his age, maybe younger, but despite the humanoid appearance, the almost complete lack of emotion on those foreign features makes the being seem timeless. Jim entertains the fleeting thought that this is when the UFO comes spiralling out of the sky, screaming like some wrathful deity, lights flashing, floodlights on, searching, searching, before beaming him aboard. And there, older and meaner versions of the blank creature in front of him await...

He returns his attention to the present moment and steps forward. Something flickers in the alien's eyes. The gravity, the sheer, monumental importance of _this_ exact moment in time, comes crashing down on Jim just as he extends his hand.

_This is First Contact._

But he's nine, nearly ten. He is old enough - and smart enough, he thinks proudly as he remembers his latest school report, before he started playing truant - to do this.

"Hi," he says, a little breathlessly, pointing to himself with the hand that isn't slowly inching forward to the neutral ground between Earth and the last frontier, "I'm Jim."


	2. like neon behind the glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on!  
The next chapter is already half written ;P so it should be up within the next fortnight.

_He is scared._

_A more apt word, perhaps, though no less incriminating, would be terrified. His mind is running too fast to meditate, too scattered for him to be able to collect himself. Something clogs his throat, choking him as he presses a hand splayed against the glass. His hand shivers, nails making echoing tapping noises against the glass with every stutter of his muscles. Behind the transparent barrier, the glass wall, the inhabitants of Terra look curiously at him, occasionally scribbling something down on their primitive pads of paper._

_A fresh wave of fear rises, burying him like a sand dune, resolute and suffocating. It makes his blood run cold - his arteries and veins a cool green copper, theirs a hot crimson iron. To them, he knows, spilled green blood means nothing._

_They had dragged him, chained and gagged and blinded. He had heard a crooning song, the shift of an antenna-_

_He doesn't know what the Terrans will do. He would hope they would just observe, but the line of instruments on the wall tells him otherwise. Besides, hope is illogical._

_The freezing eyes of the being that is closest to the barriers glint in the stark light, sending a trickle of cold down his back_

_His cell is, however, quite large, with space to move around in. There’s a bed, a table, a chair. Nothing of interest, except a box, filled with strange, multicoloured tubes. They’re soft, powdering his fingers in pastel if touched. It wipes off when he runs his fingertips along the floor, leaving a trail of dusty pink in his wake. It’s not obvious under the harsh white lights, but it’s there, scattered like the sands of his home planet. It doesn’t resemble that crimson desert in any other way, however. In fact, it doesn't resemble the burning sands of fire at all._

_He can hear them muttering amongst themselves. He’s not supposed to hear them, he can tell from how muffled the sounds are that there is more to the barrier than just glass, but he can anyway._

_Their voices are nothing like his mother's. They rumble, low and threatening, a thread of panic woven through. It’s the calm before the storm, the beginning of a growl, the dim roar before the ground rips itself apart to reveal a burning chasm of flame that ignites the sand and leaves it charred. He knows they’re scientists, but these are not the ones of his childhood, not the bright-eyed scientists that reach with gloved hands to cradle the stars. No, these are scientists to measure what rate an open wound bleeds, scientists to document what abominations crawl out of the chasm buried deep in a planet’s flesh, scientists to see how much a sky can burn before they have to shovel it away._

_He supposes that he should not have expected his mother to be an accurate representative of humanity._

_He shouldn’t have gone to investigate._

_He shouldn't-_

_Panic claws at his chest and he can't breathe, can’t cry for his mother, for his father, his brother, his sister, but she-_

_They-_

_Red blood._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Splat._

_Green blood._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

_It oozes down the walls. And-_

_Staring eyes. He blinks; Their features were so familiar._

_But Their eyes, chilly like the frost on the outside of a satellite._

_Like the ones now._

_They were going to hurt him. Kill him._

_But these humans will keep him alive. They will cut him open, sew him back together. He's one of a kind, after all. To them, he’s an interesting specimen, something to observe, to look at and find out how he works. To Them, he was an abomination, the highest form of treason._

_He wonders, vaguely, what the Terrans will think when they realise that 49.326% of his genes match theirs._

_He knows what They thought, has known since he had vanished in a swirl of atoms._

_He doubts that They would have been merciful. He has no doubt that these humans won’t follow in Their footsteps._

_But even so. They may be human, but something has been sucked out, leaving only a vague curiosity, and a deep, yawning pit of hunger._

_Fear seizes him again, locks his muscles, binds him tight in its coils._

_He cries out for the only being he knows on this planet, in this star system-_

_No-one answers._

_He is alone._


	3. I thought I saw the devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please skip to the end notes for the TW.  
This hasn't been beta'd yet, and might not be for a few days/a week or so since Charles is busy. Apologies in advance for any and all mistakes. I just wanted to get this chapter published quickly, since my exam prep is really beginning to start up. Many thanks to those of you who have stuck around for the continuation! Read on.

Jim wakes up screaming his own name.

Again.

The sheets are twisted around him, his skin clammy. His chest is heaving, and he doesn't realise that he's gulping in lungfuls of air until he hears the ragged breaths that are tearing out of him, deafening in the midnight-quiet. The darkness around him is calm, no trace of glaring lights and gleaming blades and dripping blood.

He's in the apartment he shares with Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy, in San Francisco, the United States. His name is James Tiberius Kirk, he is twenty-seven years old, and he is a planetary scientist with an aerospace engineering hobby.

He blinks a few times to clear his vision and looks up.

Bones is standing in the doorway, his face screwed up and haggard, pale even in the shoddy, mustard-shade lighting. The weak yellow light cast by the single ancient bulb in the corridor shines through his scruffy bird's-nest hair and makes it glow, almost like the halo of some guardian angel. Albeit a grouchy one.

He certainly seems like a saviour to Jim right now.

"You woke yourself up, I see," he says gruffly, peering through half-stuck together eyes at the younger man. "You didn't take the sedatives, did you?"

Jim heaves a sigh and flops backwards onto the mattress. The glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to his ceiling faintly shine green. For one awful moment, they drip green blood, but they go back to their weak glow after he blinks a few times. Jim really should take them down, but he can't bring himself to.

"No," he starts, but it doesn't come out so he clears his throat and tries again, "No, I didn't."

A little better. He still sounds like he had a screaming match with a banshee. And won.

Bones blows out a shuddering breath, the hand that isn't presses into the wall for support clenching and unclenching by his side, steady as clockwork. Almost like a heartbeat.

"You think you'll be alright for tonight?" His gaze flicks to the digital clock on the bedside table. It reads _03:57_, the fat and vindictively bright blue digits almost taunting, "Or this morning, rather."

Jim nods, suddenly exhausted.

"I thought they'd stopped," he mumbles to the sickly green moon that has begun to peel off the ceiling, "But..."

He doesn't finish.

Bones sighs, too loud in the darkness. The city is quieter than usual outside the window, but still noisy. The rumble of cars fills the silence, some of that night magic already broken. Even though night doesn't really exist in the city.

"Sleep well, kid," Bones mutters, and pads away, back to his room.

Jim doesn't answer. His entire body is still shaking with fine tremors.

He can hear Bones settling down through the thin wall, the rustle of cheap, scratchy bedclothes, the creaking of springs, a thump and quiet cursing. Jim almost smiles.

The neon lights of the city shine through the chink in the scrappy curtains, bright splodges of quivering colour adorning his Poster Wall. It's a bit of a misnomer, considering it's mostly covered in various diagrams and maps, all of space, of course. A few articles are scattered here and there, either glossy, gleaming letters from magazines or the blocky grey print of tabloids, thin yellowing paper beginning to curl at the edges, despite the generous lumps of blue-tac that keep the various pieces of the huge jigsaw puzzle stuck to the wall.

A precariously balanced pile of physics, biology and astronomy textbooks teeter on the edge of the cluttered table. They're tattered, with various bookmarks sticking out at hideous angles from between the pages. Behind them is a haphazardly stacked column of application forms and leaflets for various aerospace companies, as well as some universities. A single letter is set apart from the rest, the NASA logo stamped on top.

He doesn't have to turn his head to see the furtively hidden brochures that are threatening to spill out from their hiding place.

Jim heaves a deep breath as he sits up to gather up and straighten out the rumpled duvet. He lies back and pulls it over himself, tucking an arm under the pillow and resisting the urge to curl up in a ball, instead splaying himself on the bed like a starfish.

_Fingers spread in a greeting, cold skin tinged green-_

He gasps at the memory - or is it just a mirage? A dream? - feeling himself freeze and burn at the same time.

He gives in, and buries himself under the covers, curling into himself and clamping his eyes shut.

* * *

The city is roaring below him when he wakes up.

The smell of bacon permeates the air, almost overriding the damp musk of mould and static and cardboard. Jim briefly thinks about the stack of cleaning products gathering dust, or, more likely, mould, in one of the cupboards beneath the kitchen sink, then swings his legs over the side of the bed, stomach rumbling.

It's not often that Bones makes a fry-up. It usually means good news for Jim. But sometimes, though, it's just Bones being sweet, all while grumpily insisting everything to the contrary, but it seems like nowadays they have less and less time for niceties like that.

Jim yawns and rubs at his eyes, blinking them open when they feel less crusty and sticky-

He startles so badly that the back of his head slams against the bathroom cabinet, which is plastic and fucking lethal. The sharp ache brings a faint whimper of frustration out of him. His own reflection stares back at him with petrified blue eyes, glinting wetly in the hazy, dusty sunlight that filters through the blinds over the small, high window.

He doesn't remember walking here.

He remembers-

_Fuck fuck fuck not again please no-_

He swallows and fights to keep his breathing under his control. But his thoughts - they swirl uncontrolled and untethered in his brain, just a mess of words and jumbled concepts, a whirlpool that drags him in and drowns him and he can't see, can't feel, can only-

Shaking hands reach out, mechanical, and he observes them like a bystander in his own body as they reach out for the unassuming bottle tucked behind the sink and tip out some equally bland white pills out onto his palm. He swallows them dry, coughing as they burn down his throat.

Slowly, everything settles back down. His heart rattles in his chest and he's scared to look down, in case his chest has been slit open and he can see his internal organs stained green with blood and-

He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut.

He hopes that no one will say his name today-

"_Jim!_"

-it's a scream of agony this time. Pain and fear and shame and hatred and despair and-

He claps his hands over his ears, but he knows that _it's not real it was never real he's just insane and fucked up_.

Jim peels his hands away from his head. They come away slightly oily, and he's dimly aware of the need to wash his hair.

_Not real, not real, but this is real but what is this and what is that which way round_

His reflection swims and two cold eyes stare back at him, sneering.

_not real not real NOT REAL-_

Jim comes to slowly as the medication kicks in.

He groans quietly, reality settling back down: peeling wallpaper behind his back and cold, cracked tiles under his bare feet and the underside of the sink in front of his nose, Nigel the spider hanging bloated from between the pipes.

The pained scream still rings in his ears, the voice of his own mind crying out.

It changes from time to time.

Always his name. But in different tones.

Sometimes soft, sometimes pleading, sometimes a scream of tortured hope being crushed and sliced up under gleaming instruments.

He didn't understand any of it.

But then again, he hadn't understood that dream/hallucination/fuck knows what it was he'd had a nine year old.

It had been so real, so fantastically _tangible_ that he could still feel the cold, smooth skin under his palm before he's been thrown into oblivion with only a pair of infinite cinnamon eyes to guide him.

Jim sighs and hauls himself up. The wallpaper crackles a bit. The infuriating song that had been playing on a loop in his head starts up again, shrill and twinkly. Nigel cringes further back into his spider-den as Jim's face gets too close to him. Jim doesn't want to know what he eats. Mutated cockroaches or something like that. Fuck only knows what has evolved under that ancient monster of a marble sink.

The bathroom and corridor are the only _truly_ hideous rooms in the apartment. The two bedrooms were cleaned up and refurbished when Jim and Bones had moved in; it had been two weeks of blood, sweat, tears, and fleeing local mutant life. Bones still swears up and down that he saw a mouse with two heads, a three-pronged tail, all of the above so transparent that he could see the organs. Jim doesn't know if it's true or Bones' imagination playing tricks on him via the man's phobia of creepy-crawlies.

After all, Jim can say a thing or two about hallucinations.

He rakes still-shaking fingers through his (only mildly) greasy hair. Instead of looking slicked back and neat it just stands on end, as if electrified.

Tired to his soul, he sighs again and plucks the foamy toothbrush out of the slightly slimy plughole. As he washes it off, he spits the minty shit that he is forced to call toothpaste out and rinses his mouth, splashing a generous amount of lukewarm water into his face.

The faucet has a life of its own, Jim thinks acidly as it splutters out the last few drops of water that they'll be getting for the next couple of hours. To add to their woes, it likes to choose, completely at random, what temperature the water is going to be on any given day. If they are lucky it's warm but not too hot, but that is _always on_ the day when they aren't actually going to be at home. Mostly the water is either freezing cold, scalding, or sort of lukewarm. Goopy consistency optional, with a free and generous dose of rust mixed in to make it look like runny soup. A sort of buy one get one free system.

The kitchen sink isn't much better: cantankerous, producing hellish sounds in the middle of the night, and generally satanic. At some point, when he was suitably drunk, Jim had fondly named it Lucifer, the fridge Beelzebub; the bathroom sink had suffered a more pitiful fate, and to this day Bones still calls it Grievous. Or Dalek. It depends on how annoyed with Jim he is.

Jim eventually turns away from the sink and rubs his face dry with the scratchy and suspiciously coloured towel that, now that he thinks about it, really needs to be washed, and troops out into the kitchen.

Immediately, Bones squints suspiciously at him.

"You okay there?" He asks quite pointedly.

Jim realises that it's impossible to hide from Bones. He's probably already guessed everything. And there's no way he didn't hear the...what happened in the bathroom.

But thank someone for Sundays. Jim just got his PhD and is basking in the glory of having his own articles and findings published, as well as being the darling star of the scientific community. Ergo, free time and soon, money to move out of this shithole, with Bones tagging along. He needs a roommate, and not just for fun and games.

Jim tries not to shudder as he remembers The Incident.

They don't talk about it.

"I'm fine Belle" Jim lies through his teeth. The words stick to his tongue and burn his throat. Just like the pills.

Bones scowls at the nickname and continues eyeing him, obviously not buying it, but he doesn't push it. Instead he shoves a plate piled high with eggs, bacon and mushrooms, as well as a side of toast, in Jim's direction.

"Eat that," he barks, glaring at Jim, his eyes glittering a fond/angry green in the sunlight, "Or you will sit here until you eat it."

Jim glares right back, but he can't help the fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He ducks his head to hide it and busies himself with his food, grumbling.

Bones sighs.

"Thanks, _mom_." Jim snipes back through a mouthful of egg. A bit falls out onto his plate, which is scratched and scarred, the plastic's colour a fading pink. Jim can't really articulate how much he hates their cutlery and dishes.

The man opposite him wrinkles his nose in disgust, but continues watching him carefully. Jim knows that until he finishes the plate, he's not going anywhere.

"We could stay in," Bones says after a few minutes of the younger man chewing silently, "Maybe watch something that isn't Marvel. I don't care how much you like that shit, I ain't watching Iron Man again."

"We only watched it...twice!" Jim protests indignantly, "Okay, slight understatement-"

Bones snorts, loudly.

"We watched it at _least_ five times, thank you kindly." He drawls, giving Jim a dirty look, even though his eyes are soft.

Jim pouts at him.

Bones just rolls his eyes.

"Bless your heart," he grouses and buries his nose in his coffee mug.

"Star War marathon?" Jim asks hopefully as he scrapes the last of the food into a pile in the middle of the plate, knife and fork making a hideous scraping sound against the plastic.

Bones looks at him pityingly, a single baleful eye peering at Jim over the rim of the dumb mug (_I really wish that "you dumbass" was an appropriate way to end a sentence_) that the younger man had given him a couple of years ago. The handle is already chipped, the rim stained with the countless cups of coffee that Bones imbibes to keep himself awake during the night shifts.

"Alright," he agrees, sounding, if that was possible, more irritated than usual, "Not the prequels though."

"But-"

"No. It is _never_ the appropriate time to ogle Ewan McGregor. Or his ass. _Especially_ his ass."

"Oh please, like you don't stare at Carrie Fisher-"

* * *

The answer arrives a week later.

Bones is on call. Jim is scrawling hasty notes for tomorrow's meeting. Life continues in the city, the muted hum ever present. He's got one earbud in, music drowning out the arthritic clanking of the heating and water systems. The paperwork that had slowly invaded Jim's workspace has been roughly shoved aside, clearing a coffee-stained area for Jim to write on. His elbow is dangerously close to a row of mugs that will probably topple like dominos if he touches one of them. The coffee inside the mugs that have been there the longest isn't really liquid anymore, the other mugs displaying coffee in varying degrees of moulding. The whole exhibition emits a vaguely musty smell that makes him wrinkle his nose and gag a little, a sort of sickly sweet, almost dusty scent. Jim reminds himself to put them into the dishwasher later. Or maybe just throw them out - he should probably do it now, really. The smell really is something. Bones would have a fit of he saw/smelled them anyway. He has a disturbingly sharp sense of smell from working in the hospital, so Jim best dispose of the evidence of the crime quickly.

His phone is lying a respectable distance away, but close enough that Jim hears it when it vibrates. To be fair it makes the mugs rattle a bit, but that's irrelevant. Jim knows that he should probably ignore his phone right now, but nonetheless he checks, picking squinting at the bright screen.

**_dumb fuck:_ ** _1030, day after tomorrow, if you're not there I'm telling Len_

The phone drops from his hands and he swears as it slides down to the floor, knocking into the sloppily hidden pile of brochures. They spill out across the floor, over the stained and ratty carpet, and _fuck since_ when were there so many?

He scrabbles to collect them up, but his head knocks against the underside of the table, and something clanks ominously, but he doesn't care he needs to collect the brochures because if Bones sees he'll leave and Jim will be alone again and Bones will have been just another hallucination, and-

Sometimes foul smelling drips onto his face and he wipes at it. His hand comes away sticky and brown and sort of green, and he swears in despair as he hauls himself upright, realising that the coffee has spilled _all over his notes_ and now he'll need to rewrite them and he doesn't have the time and the brochures are flapping all over the room and slapping at his face and all he can do is shield himself as the voice whispers in his ears, _scream for me_ and cold eyes are watching his every move and there's the boy, the boy with the curious eyes and he's screaming for Jim to help him, to save him, and Jim is useless he can't help and and and-

_Green blood red blood drip drip drip cold disdain and burning hatred and mind numbing fear-_

"-im! Jim! _Jim, can you hear me?_"

He gasps, lungs heaving in air and the air tastes of copper and it's pouring molten down throat he can't breathe-

"_JIM!_"

* * *

Bones stares at him from across the kitchen table.

Jim stares resolutely at the absolutely _fascinating _tea stain on the cheap white plastic, which is beginning to peel in an equally..._fascinating_ way.

"So," Bones starts. His voice is hoarse, filled with tears, and he coughs before rasping, "You okay?"

"Never been better." Jim says, his own voice wobbling and cracking half-way through. He sniffs. His eyes burn. The cut on his arm does as well, the iodine stinging viciously, the skin yellow and brown and red, the exposed flesh a stark white with red pinpricks .

"Jim." Bones whispers.

Jim finally looks up.

His best friend looks shell-shocked.

His hair is sticking out at hideous angles, and he's far too pale, his eyes ringed by dark circles. A bruise is blooming (_like red blood_) across his cheek, and Jim winces, guilt tearing through him.

Silence congeals the air, making it thick and clammy. The heating system clanks ominously. The faucet behind Bones gurgles cheerfully and regurgitates a few drops of water. They smack far too loudly against the rusted, dented metal of the sink. Beelzebub the fridge chitters and whirrs.

"You could've told me," Bones murmurs finally into the quiet. Jim screws his eyes shut, refusing to cry. He knows that his face is probably going wonky, going that sort of wrong shape that faces make when someone's trying not to cry.

Bones sighs, and the chair makes a hideous screeching noise as he presumably pushes it back and _he's going to leave, and-_

Jim is yanked out of his own seat and he yelps in surprise, eyes flying open just as Bones envelopes him in a crushing hug.

Brain temporarily broadcasting _Error 404, not found_, Jim hesitantly wraps his arms around Bones' barrel-like chest.  
  
"You idiot," Bones chokes out, "I ain't leaving you, ya hear me?"

Jim tucks his face into Bones' neck, and takes a shaky breath.

Nods.

And starts to cry.

Bones takes it in stride and rocks them from side to side, crooning an old lullaby under his breath.

They stay like that for a long time.

The yellow light of the kitchen flickers, and the tiles squeak, but Jim feels safe.

He ignores the voice that whispers _Jim, please_. He ignores the fear that dries out his throat as something cold slides through his chest again. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds on tighter to Bones, even though he sees white walls and a clock hanging among chalk drawings of a place he cannot name, of crimson mountains and sand and spiralling runes that read _save me, help me, Jim Jim Jim, save me help me SAVE ME HELP ME, _frantic and isolated.

His hands fist in the back of Bones' jumper.

_Not real,_ he tells himself firmly, and clings on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: a flashback/episode/hallucination involving blood and fear.
> 
> Another warning: I'm on an ill-advised trip through star wars (meaning that Jim will be a complete nerd. Like me). The next chapter should be up in a month or two max, but life gets in the way and exam prep in the UK is almost military in its brutality in some schools. I also realised that this fic, which started out innocent and quite poetic, is getting very dark, with a good deal of body horror being mixed in to boot.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Any questions can be asked in the comments or on my Tumblr where I shitpost under the same username.

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please leave a kudo and a comment :)


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